


Not a Thing of Ballads

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, aggressive flirting, ciri being grossed out by her grandparents, just otp being ridiculous, technically set during the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: A quiet evening with her grandparents has Cirilla contemplating how love doesn't always look like a thing of ballads.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61





	Not a Thing of Ballads

**Author's Note:**

> So the toy in question is basically a cat's cradle, fyi.
> 
> In terms of the show's timeline, this takes place shortly before Eist's final trip to Skellige.

“Not too late to back out.”

“Excellent advice. Follow it.”

Cirilla rolls her eyes at her grandparents’ ridiculous banter, at just how her grandmother uses her queenly tone at that last remark, every syllable dripping with disdain. She turns a page in her book, glancing across the room at her grandparents.

They’re still in their royal finery, despite the late hour—Eist of course has already removed his crown, it’s on the floor by his feet, but other than that, everyone still looks as if they’re ready to walk straight into the banquet hall. There was a feast for a visiting dignitary, and as usual, afterwards, the three of them have come back to the queen’s private receiving room to unwind from the night. Ciri’s curled up in the window seat with a book. Her grandparents are sitting side by side on the chaise in the middle of the room, backs turned to the large, roaring fire in the hearth, each with their head bent slightly as they concentrate on their hands.

It’s some dexterity toy. A string tied into one large loop that you wrap around your fingertips, moving them to create various shapes. It was a gift from the foreign dignitary—a gift intended for Ciri, but she’s thirteen and far too old for such nonsense.

The King and Queen of Skellige and Cintra, apparently, are not.

It came as a set of two, so each of them has one, both trying to form a star before the other does.

Ciri tries not to smile at the way Grandmother’s mouth twists and twitches in agitation as she tries to make her fingers do exactly what she wants. Grandfather’s not much better, squinting slightly in the dim light, as if he can barely see the strings in front of him. They both look utterly ridiculous.

They’re both utterly happy, too. Cirilla can tell. Then again, they usually are, whenever there’s a competition. Not that this toy is meant to be used competitively, but it’s almost a given that they’ll turn even the smallest of things into a chance to bicker and taunt.

It’s weird, she thinks. That her grandparents still flirt. Weirder still that _this_ is how they flirt.

Still, it’s obvious that’s what is happening. Eist’s elbow is slowly rising, intentionally pushing against Calanthe’s arm and disturbing her efforts. She elbows him back with a light huff. Neither looks up, but they’re still so highly aware of each other. Eist grins, as if he can sense her petulant frown.

It’s like a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails. Except the boy is a king on the far side of forty, and the girl is a queen on the same side of that hill, and they’ve been married for over a decade.

 _Weird_. Ciri shakes her head and returns to her book.

“No shame in admitting defeat.” Eist’s voice is low, teasing.

“I’d rather die a thousand deaths,” Calanthe announces, sounding utterly serious.

Ciri can hear the smile in her grandfather’s voice as he says, “May I suggest a thousand small deaths instead—”

A sharp sound. Grandmother’s hand, smacking Grandfather’s chest. Ciri doesn’t get the joke, but it must be lewd. Grandmother only reacts to the wildest of his inappropriate comments with such force.

“And now you’ve made me ruin it.” Grandmother’s pouting, Ciri can tell without even glancing up. Still, she does look up, mildly curious. It still looks like a tangle of string to her, but apparently Calanthe thought she was close to figuring it out before.

“Perhaps you should learn not to hit people,” Eist shrugs, completely unaffected.

“Perhaps you should keep a civil tongue in your head,” Calanthe snipes back. There’s no true bite to her words. She’s too distracted by her hands.

Ciri notes the way Grandmother’s foot moves, brushing lightly against Grandfather’s ankle. Saying one thing, meaning another. She’s always been like that.

Grandfather slides his own foot closer, as if encouraging her. She slips her foot out of her shoe, stockinged toes trilling lightly against his ankle and over the top of his foot.

Gross. They always think they’re so sly, like teenagers.

“No complaints about my tongue this morning,” Grandfather comments lightly, as airy and unaffected as ever. Ciri’s pretty sure that she wasn’t actually supposed to hear that one, given the low pitch of his tone.

Finally, Calanthe breaks, dipping her head to give a quiet snort of amusement.

That’s how Ciri always knows she’s truly amused. Her court laugh is far more affected—and even that has variations and nuances, depending on her aim, be it flattery or mockery. But when she barely makes a sound, a small huff or a sharp snort, that’s when she’s truly laughing.

Ciri pushes her own smile into a frown. “You two are absolutely disgusting.”

They both look up, as if surprised that she’s still there, as if she’s somehow invading their privacy.

This is the role she always plays, in their little trio. Beleaguered child, somehow always more mature than the two actual adults in the room. (Most of the time. Sometimes, she teams up with Eist to drive her grandmother up the wall.)

Mainly, she does it because she knows it amuses them. And despite being a teenager ( _barely_ , Eist always points out, to her unending irritation), she still enjoys earning their smiles.

“If _you_ had played against me, like I so graciously asked, you could have been spared such a disgusting scene,” Eist points out. Calanthe’s mouth twitches, as if tamping down a smile.

“You two still would have found a way to be all gross and flirty,” Ciri retorts.

Grandmother looks at Grandfather with a slight arch of her brow, conceding the point.

“Perhaps you should be grateful that’s all we’re doing,” Eist informs her.

Calanthe hums, tilting her head in slight agreement as she returns her attention to her hands.

“Lucky?” Ciri scoffs. “You’re practically making out—in the receiving room!”

For some reason, this make them both grin. Again, she senses some kind of inappropriate joke, some secret they share.

She shakes her head and goes back to reading. _So fucking gross._

She can curse, in her thoughts. If she did so aloud, Grandmother would bellow and blow smoke out her nostrils. She feels a small measure of triumph in the little unknown moment of rebellion.

There’s a sudden flurry, a small squeak of surprise from Calanthe, and Ciri looks up again.

Eist’s hands are literally tied together at the moment, but he’s managed to lift his arms over Calanthe’s head and back down around her waist, trapping her between them and pulling her in for a kiss. She’s leaning back slightly, her own tied hands held out at an odd angle to keep her efforts from being further ruined, but she’s not actually pulling away—no, she’s rather vigorously returning the kiss.

“You two are _so_ gross!” Ciri declares again, this time with more feeling.

Her grandparents devolve into laughter. Calanthe lets her head rest against Eist’s chest for a beat. Even now, she’s aware of the crown on her head, delicately maneuvering so that it doesn’t tip or hurt him.

“Ready to admit defeat?” He asks quietly.

“Death before dishonor.” She reminds him stoically. She lifts her head again, fixing him with a stare that should be impervious but is marred by the warmth in her eyes. Her tone is equally warm, “Release me, brigand.”

“Pay the ransom.”

The ransom is another kiss. Ciri pointedly turns away, putting her back to them completely. This earns light chuckles from her grandparents, whenever they stop sucking each other’s face long enough to notice. She continues ignoring them, as best she can.

Silence reigns again. When Ciri shifts back around several minutes later, they’re back to focusing on their own hands, desperate to beat each other in this ridiculous game.

This doesn’t look like the fairy tales and ballads Cirilla has heard, her whole life. Nothing grand or dramatic or beautiful or breathtaking about sitting around playing silly, stupid games meant for children.

Yet, somehow, she knows this is love. True love. She takes a beat to watch them, as if trying to solve a riddle.

Then Grandfather’s face lights up, and he crows victoriously.

“You didn’t.” Grandmother looks stricken.

“I _did_.” He leans in, voice smooth and assured. He holds out his hands, tilting them so that she can see the pattern.

Grandmother utters a string of curses that she’d have Ciri horsewhipped for repeating. This only makes Grandfather laugh harder.

“What was that again?” He wheedles, absolutely brimming with glee. “A thousand deaths?”

Grandmother practically snarls.

Then, after a beat, she commands, “Show me.”

Mousesack once said that Grandmother had a mind like a raven. Ciri didn’t understand it at the time, but now she thinks she does. The woman enjoys a challenge, and once she sets her mind to a riddle or a puzzle, she’ll pick away at it until it’s solved. It’s what makes her a great queen, in a way, Ciri thinks. She hopes she’s like that someday, too. Now that she’s older—just a year younger than the Lioness was, when she became queen—she tries to notice all the ways that Calanthe rules, all the attributes and skills she uses to be effective. She has to be ready, she knows. Grandmother constantly tries to shield her, but like her cursing, Ciri keeps the lessons locked away in her mind. When Grandmother finally does decide to start showing Ciri how to rule, she’ll be surprised to learn that Ciri is already ahead of the curve.

Ciri can’t deny that there will be a measure of satisfaction, knowing she’s outwitted her grandmother is some small way. But most importantly, she knows it will make Calanthe proud. She’ll prove herself worthy as the next lioness.

Eist ducks his head and begins trying to explain. It’s difficult, because Calanthe’s hands are at a different angle that his. Eventually, she’s in between his arms again, this time seated on his lap as he holds his hands up for reference while she continues working on her own puzzle.

Grandfather whispers something in her ear, and Grandmother merely hums, lips curling into a grin. She shifts a little, as if she can’t quite get comfortable. Grandfather murmurs something else, and Grandmother chuckles this time, low and warm.

They’re both so happy that they seem to glow, brighter than the fire behind them. Their clothing has gold threads throughout, and it only adds to the aura. Grandmother shifts again, leaning further to the right so that Grandfather can better see over her left shoulder. She turns her face slightly more towards his—the flames in the hearth catch the back of her crown and it glints and glistens as well. They’re shining, like the gold-outlined paintings of the gods along the walls of the castle temple.

Now they look like something out of a fairy tale, Ciri thinks. Golden and happy. Grandfather kisses Grandmother’s shoulder and she dips her head a little more, smiling softly as her eyes stay locked on to his.

There. Ciri sees it. The kind of love from ballads. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows that she does. She thinks of the tales she has heard, about the lives they led before she was born, before her parents died. The Lioness, a warrior and a queen, bold and brave. The Sea Hound, a sailor and a jarl, daring and dashing. The legendary battles of wits they held, at feasts. The feats they performed on battlefields and stormy seas, and how despite it all, they both fell in defeat at the foot of Love and Destiny. The story of him standing beneath her window one night, challenging her to a duel for her own hand (that one’s true, Mousesack told her—but he wasn’t supposed to know about it, no one’s supposed to know about it but her grandparents). Calanthe had to have won, because it was years before they were married—but somehow, Ciri knows that something else happened that night, something shifted between them, because they were still in love, after that. Grandfather won as well, in some different way.

“Just…there,” Eist's voice is gentle as he directs the movement of one of Calanthe’s fingers. He grins, a bit breathlessly. “See? You’ve got it.”

Grandmother’s smiling like the sun now. She lifts her hands a bit, holding them out so that her star in now just below his.

“Mine’s better,” she decrees. He huffs in incredulous amusement at that.

“I still won,” he reminds her.

“Being the first to finish is hardly ever something to brag about.” There’s something in her voice that tells Ciri this is another adult joke. Grandfather dips his head, resting against her shoulder as he shakes with silent laughter.

Grandmother seems pleased. Then she turns her attention to Ciri.

“My dearest, sweet cub, please tell your grandfather that my star is vastly superior.”

Obviously, she’s buttering Ciri up, with all the terms of endearment. Ciri makes a face. “They both look horrible.”

“Yes, but which one looks less horrible?” Eist prods. He wiggles his own hands, indicating which one Cirilla should choose.

She tamps down a smile and rises to her feet. She leaves her book on the window seat, for tomorrow night. “You’re both ridiculous. I’m off to bed.”

Calanthe lowers her hands and leans forwards slightly with an expectant air. Dutifully, Ciri moves closer, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Sweet dreams, dear heart,” Grandmother’s voice is raspy, the way it always is when she truly means something.

“Love you,” Grandfather says, when Ciri pecks his cheek as well. “And close the door on your way out.”

Cirilla rolls her eyes at the unmistakable tone. She brushes past them with a heavy sigh, pretending not to hear the way they both snicker at her response.

She looks back at them one last time, before closing the door. She’s behind them now, all she can see is the back of Grandmother’s head, over the curve of Grandfather’s shoulder. She’s turning and leaning in, as if resting her temple against his forehead. He has removed his own string and is merely moving her hands with his own, creating some new shape with the string still around her fingers. Their hands shift and meld, fingers sliding together and slowing drawing apart again like some kind of whisperingly romantic waltz.

Somehow, this seems far more intimate than the kisses Cirilla witnessed before. It’s quiet and it’s soft and it’s nothing that the bards sing about, but it feels…sacred. Something that’s meant to remain mysterious and unwitnessed.

Then Grandfather mutters something else and Grandmother gives a sharp, hard laugh. He’s made another lewd joke, Cirilla knows.

She flicks her eyes heavenwards as she closes the door. _Gross_.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh? You'd like to hear more about Eist challenging Calanthe to a duel for her own hand? To quote the incomparable Gina Linetti: I got you, boo.


End file.
